


So Hot You're Hurting My Feelings

by Mallaeus



Series: Mallaeus' X-Men Not-So-Cinematic Universe [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bobby is a Himbo, Convenience Store, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dating, Developing Relationship, Everyone Is Gay, Getting to Know Each Other, John is Over It, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Night Driving, Oral Sex, Secrets, Sex, Side Story, Smoking, Swearing, except Scott, situationship - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22437766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallaeus/pseuds/Mallaeus
Summary: John Allerdyce can't sleep, and decides to take a night drive to a shitty convenience store across the city to clear his head and pick up a pack of cigarettes.Bobby Drake is deep undercover as a convenience store clerk, on a secret mission from the X-Men.A relationship ensues, in which John and Bobby proceed to fall for one another far more quickly than either is comfortable with.A side-story to a greater narrative, coming to you soon in 2020.
Relationships: John Allerdyce/Bobby Drake, Ororo Munroe/Piotr Rasputin
Series: Mallaeus' X-Men Not-So-Cinematic Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614586
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	1. Night Drive

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm mallaeus, you may remember me from my smash hit Pokémon fanfic Pure Shores, available where all good fanfic is found (i.e., here).
> 
> I'm back again with another banger, this time set in my interpretation of the world of the X-Men, which incorporates the movies, comics, and my own headcanon into a hellish monstrosity which should never see the light of day. 
> 
> Things to expect: gays, sex scenes completely devoid of anatomical nouns, smoking and my husband, Colossus.
> 
> This story is part of a broader narrative, planned somewhat for the coming months. Keep an eye out for Cadence in your feed in the coming weeks, which is this story's parent narrative.
> 
> Having said that, this story could absolutely be enjoyed on its own, and I hope you do.

Three shafts of orange light against a wall cast in shades of midnight.

Six springs out of place in the mattress, four jabbed painfully into his body where it lay tossed and turned by insomnia.

Two eyes trained on a crack in the ceiling — off-white faded into grey faded into fizzing lights across his retinas as his brain began to shut out the optic information it deemed unnecessary.

Absently, he wondered if he stared at the ceiling enough, would he be rendered blind? His visual centres closed down until further notice, everyone sent home, no pay?

He turned to his side, rustling the sheets further into the tempest of fabric caught between his limbs. Eyes refocused, spots swimming in his vision, he regarded the clock. Four bright red digits declared the time with all the enthusiasm of a cockerel at dawn: 03:42. His brow pulsed with a headache, the whisper of a migraine swirling in the depths of his skull. Blood coursed through his head, disturbed by his movements, sound bolstered by the surrounding silence.

With great effort he rose, body swinging suddenly from horizontal to vertical. His skull thumped rhythmically, pulse heightened in anticipation of action that would never come. He lifted his creaking limbs from the bed, covers discarded to their whorl on the mattress, and sought his peace, across the room by the window. His body interrupted the light from outside, his shadow looming behind him, front illuminated in sickly orange. And there it lay, the little carton of salvation — bone white, accented in scarlet, black warnings plastered all over it. He reached for it, quick movements snatching it from what he could imagine was its own sleep, rattling it awake in search of comfort.

_ Empty. _

He crushed the cigarette carton in his hand, frustration pulling the tendons in his forearm taut, hand shaking. He struck a match — the box practically overflowing with the things as if to mock him — and let the flame course through his mind, catching across the hand clutching the carton. He watched the flame engulf his fist, smelled the ash of the cardboard as it disintegrated in his grip. 

_ Serves you right. _

He moved his hand to the open window, letting the night air carry the ash with it. He scrubbed a hand down his face, palm resting clammy against his slumped mouth. His closet gaped at him from his right, imploring him silently to dress. He threw on whatever materialized in his grasp first, diving through the pockets of three different jackets — why did he have so many leather jackets — before he found his car keys and wallet. 

The leather of the car seat was cold against his back, and he let it seep through, hoping it might do something to lower his perpetually-scorching body temperature. His car hummed mutedly as he started it, pulling out of his complex's garage with relative ease. For the first night in weeks he hadn't needed to stand under the hood, hands aflame, warming up the engine manually. Maybe it was a sign that winter was finally packing up and moving out. Or maybe he had just gotten lucky tonight.

_ Maybe you'll break down on the highway and an eighteen wheeler will just take you out. _

"If only," he spoke, answering out loud the voice which existed only in his head. He had been trying to stop that lately — believing that perhaps responding to it only legitimized the thoughts, gave them a degree of power or control over him. At the same time, they were only thoughts.

_ How dangerous could they be? _

As if to prove their potency, his mind began its usual stroll through the hallways of his waking nightmares, rattling the cages of the old reliable anxieties, trying to spook him out. Not tonight, he thought, cranking the car's stereo to what was probably an unreasonable level. 

The streets were barren at this time of night, and he made it across town before the third song on the radio had gotten to its second chorus. He parked, and let the song finish around him as he slumped forwards. There was no reason to drive all the way across the city just for cigarettes — there was a perfectly serviceable twenty-four hour convenience store two blocks from his apartment. It was the journey that counted, the fifteen to forty-five or so minutes of destination-oriented movement that let him decompress, let his jagged thoughts collapse to a more easily-traversed topography. He pushed off the steering wheel with a sigh, and clambered out of the car.

The convenience store stood illuminated alone among its peers, every other business shuttered promptly hours ago. The sickly glow spread across the pavement in front of the store, staining the concrete — neon greens and pinks swam together, mixed with fluorescent light so white it was blue, a bruise of pallid colour against the stark grey of the sidewalk.

Or maybe they were just lights, and he really just needed some processed sugars and nicotine.

He pushed open the door, and his already fragile mental state threatened to completely implode. The usual cashier — a Chinese immigrant who went by the incredibly obviously fake name Mr. Chang — was gone. In his stead was some guy who looked around his own age, standing disinterested at the counter. The new guy nodded at him, barely glancing up from his position, hunched over his smartphone. He darted down the aisle, eyes fixated on the spectrum of chip bags in front of him as he attempted to steal glances at the evidently-bored cashier.

He had never seen him before, he was sure of that. He would have remembered a pair of arms like that. What was a guy who looked like that doing working here? Kid could be a model.

_Keep dreaming, loser._ _Out of your league._

Yes, thank you. He was very aware of that.

He grabbed a bag at random, conscious of how much time he was taking. He approached the counter, tossing the chips on the surface as he fished out his wallet. The kid dragged his eyes up from his phone —  _ Could he have done that any slower? —  _ turning it face down as he punched the keys on the register, expression neutral.

"That everything?" His voice wasn't deep, exactly, but it carried enough weight to resonate up and down his body.

_ Christ. _

"Can I grab a pack of cigs too?"

"You got ID?"

He rolled his eyes, fumbling his driver's license out of his wallet. It landed on the counter between them, and Brown-Eyes picked it up. His eyes flitted from the picture to his face, and back again twice before he nodded, handing it back. 

"So, John, what can I get you?"

He didn't give him the satisfaction of reacting to his use of his name.

"You still got Marlboros?"

Brown-Eyes plodded to the cigarette unit, weight heavy on one side of his body, unlocking it. The panel swung wide and heavy, disappearing him behind its frame. He returned a moment later, shoving it closed with an iota of the effort that it took Mr. Chang. Where the older man huffed and puffed like a pack-a-day smoker himself, Brown-Eyes slammed it with the barest twitch of a bicep. The cigarette carton sat next to his chips, bracketed by Brown-Eyes' hands. His head hung between his hunched shoulders, trying to catch John's attention.

"That everything?"

"Uh, I was gonna get a soda too, hold on."

Brown-Eyes called to him as he shuffled to the drinks cabinet, his voice conflicting with the surprisingly comforting rumble of the cooling system.

"I hope you're not driving stoned, hate to have to call the cops."

John's head turned, expression bewildered.

"I'm not stoned."

"Coulda fooled me." Brown-Eyes shrugged, palms up. It was then that John caught it. The whisper of a hint of an inclination of a smirk, tugging the corners of his mouth. 

_ This little fucker. _

"You're awful rude for a cashier, dude. What happened to 'the customer is always right'?"

"Think Reagan got rid of that one." 

The smirk materialized fully on his face — ice-white teeth cutting through the fluorescent fog that clogged the light of the store.

"What's your story then, Brown-Eyes? Where's Chang?"

A wave of pride washed over John as the smirk faltered, flaking off the kid's face as his conversational upper hand vanished. He wasn't sure which had poked him harder, the nickname or the question.

"First of all, name's Bobby." He thrust his hand out, and it took a moment for John to realize he intended them to shake. A proper introduction, as it were. Their hands met over the chips and cigarette carton, narrowly avoiding knocking over John's generic branded orange soda. He was struck by the strength of his grip. Or rather, the lack thereof. He could see the kid's forearms, saw the veins in the crook of his elbow pressed against his skin like snakes writhing under a sheet. But there was a gentleness in the way he held John's hand, his squeeze light, fingers lingering, dragging across the inside of his wrist as they separated.

_ Yup, that'll do it. _

"And second of all?"

Bobby looked confused for a moment. John could see the hamster wheel running in the vacant parking lot of his mind, saw the poor creature clamber out, crank the wheel back a few turns so Bobby could remember the question. His eyebrows pulled up slightly, mouth forming an 'o'.

"Chang's back in China for a while. Guess his mom died or something, and he's her only remaining family. He's gotta organize her whole estate, seems like he's gonna be gone a few weeks."

John evaluated the plausibility of the story in his head. Chang hated his mom's guts, spent half his time at the store complaining about the woman, but at the same time, you're not gonna just let your mom get cremated by the cleanup squad who come to disinfect her apartment to get it ready for the next tenant. John wasn't sure how accurate his picture of Chang's mom's situation might have been — given that his only source of information was an 84 year old Chinese man who pretended to not be able to speak English to get out of explaining why his store only took cash.

John worked his eyes back up to meet Bobby's, and nodded.

"Right. And how did you end up here?"

Bobby didn't miss a beat.

"Chang lives across the hall from my grandma. I had some time spare and figured I'd make some extra money watching the place while he's gone. We're operating on limited hours." He smirked again, that same self-confidence restored, "Boy's gotta sleep, huh?"

"So you work the graveyard shift and then you're shut for the day? Doesn't that seem backwards?"

"We make most of our money from late night shoppers. Drunks, stoners, husbands looking for dill pickles and olives for their heavily pregnant wives." He paused, smirk widening into that pearl-white grin, "Insomniacs."

"Read me like a book, huh?"

"It's the bags," he replied, rubbing his finger under his eye in illustration. John bristled, Bobby's jab hitting just a little too close to home — or rather, the ramshackle outhouse which his brain operated out of.

"Well, if you're done insulting me, can I pay for these?"

Bobby shrugged again, counting out John's change and slipping it into his palm with that same whispering touch of his fingers.

John lingered at the register, emotions and thoughts mud wrestling in the front of his mind.

"Need anything else?" Bobby's tone was pleasant, verging on bored.

_ Just forty-five minutes with you and a mattress. _

John's mouth opened and shut. He shook his head.

"Thought I forgot something. See you round, Bobby."

Bobby waved him off, the flimsy door of the store separating them finally as John sidled over to his car. It had remained unscathed in the intervening minutes, something for which he would have praised God if he were so inclined. 

He sat in the driver's seat for a moment, thoughts collecting into a pool at the front of his mind. He stood at the edge and peered in, catching a glimpse of his own face. Something rippled the surface of his thoughts, and the picture swam, Bobby's face merging with his own. 

He popped open his soda, processed sugars racing a lap through his bloodstream. It was comforting — the artificial tang of man-made sweeteners, the radioactive glow of soda-pop orange, brighter than any cartoon.

His drive home was peaceful.

He took the long way. He allowed himself two cigarettes, let them burn slowly before flaming them to ash in his palm, letting the wind whip them away.

He fell to dreaming as his clock read 05:30. His final thought as he drifted off centred on Bobby. He wondered if he was closing up shop. He wondered if there had been any more customers, what they bought. Was he nice to them? Disinterested? He wondered what Bobby's apartment looked like, where he slept. What would it feel like to sleep next to him?

John fell asleep with his hands on himself, recalling the way the muscles in Bobby's arms moved with the rest of him, dreaming of what they might feel like wrapped around him.

He wasn't surprised to wake up thinking of Bobby.

He was more surprised at how much he didn't hate it.

* * *

His next trip to the convenience store was in two weeks. He had been working in the interim, his packed schedule forcing him to adopt a sleeping pattern that facilitated his irregular shifts at the restaurant. But now their Valentine's Day rush was over, and he was discarded again. He'd be lucky to get even two or three shifts over the coming weeks, which suited him just fine. The place was awful, a high-end establishment that wanted a Michelin star so badly that he was convinced the management were sacrificing busboys to Satan in the walk-in. Customers were rude, management was worse, and his fellow waiters spent half their time yelling at one another in an assortment of Spanish, Portuguese and several Baltic languages — none of which John had any understanding of.

He had been free of cigarettes for five years before he started the job four months ago. Three weeks in, he was back on the smokes, and it was only a conscious decision to deprive himself that kept him away from his proclivity for chain-smoking himself to an early grave. It was all for nothing in any case — if the cigarettes didn't get him, the stress would.

Or perhaps a disgruntled customer would be so dissatisfied with their service that they'd run him through with their bread knife. He could see it now, the other waitstaff stepping over his rapidly-cooling corpse, grumbling in their native tongues about his inconvenience. Maybe one of them would trip over his lifeless form and break their neck on the edge of a table.

_ Would serve them right. _

"You okay? You've been staring at the pickles for a solid eight minutes at this point. There aren't that many kinds, dude." Bobby's voice cut through John's thoughts, mocking concern bleeding away to something perhaps more genuine underneath.

John turned to him, and back to the shelves. 

"Sorry. Mind is somewhere else tonight." 

He made his way around the store, picking up what little things he needed. Quietly, he wondered why he had chosen this store again. Yes, he had trouble sleeping, but there were other places one could drive to than a shitty convenience store halfway across the city. He glanced at Bobby, and swore he saw the other man's eyes dart back to his phone.

He was watching him.

"Say, how come you never move from behind that counter?"

Bobby startled at John's attempt to begin a conversation for once, and regarded him with an expression somewhere between suspicion and interest. He reached for something under the counter, pulling out a pair of crutches. He walked with them out from behind, gesturing with his leg to the cast plastered from below his knee right down to his foot.

"Sports injury."

_ An  _ athlete.  _ Even further out of your league. _

"Shit, that looks like it hurts."

Bobby smirked again, that same twist of the mouth that said 'I know something that you don't'.

"You should see the other guy."

John snorted, "I'll bet."

Bobby hobbled behind the counter once more, shifting his weight stiffly to his good leg. They didn't speak much for the rest of John's time in the store — Bobby stood busy, inspecting something on his phone that was clearly bothering him. His face scrunched in concentration as he scrolled the screen, clearly processing a lot at once.

He noticed John watching, and closed up his phone, putting it face down again. 

"You ready?" he asked, cheerful demeanour returned once more. John nodded silently, paid for his meagre haul, and left just as quickly.

* * *

Two weeks later, and the store was closed when John arrived, hand-written note taped to the door that read: CLOSED DUE TO FAMILY EMERGENCY.

John piled into his car once more and sat there for a long while, as if staring at the storefront would magically summon Bobby to come unlock the shutters and throw on the lights so he could pick up some cigarettes and a tube of cookie dough.

_ Or maybe you just want to see him again _ .

That too.

John released a breath he hadn't known he had been holding, head resting in between his hands on the steering wheel.

"Shit."

* * *

The restaurant got busy all of a sudden, several large-scale corporate events taking up much of their calendar. This had the knock on effect on John of acutely increased hours and, therefore, pay. At the same time, he was distinctly aware of the fact that he hadn't had much time to himself in what was now approaching a month. He wasn't going to complain — being out of the house meant being out of his head, which made for a delightful change of pace.

It was then, to say the least, a shock to the system when, at the sudden end of that busy period, he was fired.

They just didn't have the money to have that many staff in rotation during such a slow period of time. That had seemed reasonable up until it dawned on him that he had been the only one let go. The realization of the extent of their disdain from him became concrete when he passed by it one rainy day in March, a stark Help Wanted sign sitting pretty in the window. He drove on, not wanting to give them any more of his soul than they had already taken.

* * *

One night, as March began the slow metamorphosis into April, he found himself at the store again. Bobby was there, still no sign of Mr. Chang. Bobby visibly perked up as John entered, face twisting into a smile as he looked up from his phone.

"You're back!"

John was perplexed.

"Uh, yeah. Ran out of detergent."

Bobby nodded as if that were the most interesting thing in the world. 

John moved past the counter on his way to the laundry aisle, noticing that Bobby had lost that distinct sway to his body — the diagonal tilt as he stood off of his injured leg.

"Is your leg all healed?"

He turned to John again, body straightening out of politeness as he met his gaze. He looked impressive for a guy who barely passed five feet eleven. Big muscles for a convenience store clerk slash sports team member. 

Unless the sport was professional wrestling.

_ Wouldn't that be something. _

"All better. Doctor said I should lay off sports and 'heavy cardio' for a while," he replied, fingers drawing quotes around the words in midair. John nodded, turning down the aisle. He swore he caught some hint of something in Bobby's voice — a thought unfinished, a question unasked.

It didn't take him long to find out, as he watched Bobby's hands shake minutely as he punched in the numbers on the register. There was that same glancing touch on his wrist as they passed the money between them — only this time, it was less controlled, more obvious. 

_ He's nervous. _

John wasn't exactly at capacity to muster up the wherewithal to ask Bobby what was bothering him, and so was glad when he broached the subject himself.

"Hey, this might seem weird, but a few of my friends are going out tomorrow night. To the club across the street." He pointed, and John followed the line of his finger to the gutter dive bar that John had been thrown out of once in a past life. Bobby's hand dropped, and he picked his thread back up again, "You could come, if you want."

"So I would be going out. With you."

Bobby was quick.

"And my friends."

"But I would be with you, and since you're my only link to this group we would be-"

"Together. Yes."

"So it's a date?"

"Well-"

John interrupted him, one last jab before he granted him mercy and accepted the invitation, "Do you normally just ask dudes out like that? You could get your ass beat."

Bobby relaxed, face returning to that same smirk. He stood straighter, arms folded across his chest, which he puffed out.

"I don't worry about that too much."

John snorted, employing all of his faculties to wrangle his face into an expression of the utmost disinterest in Bobby's display.

"You're lucky you're cute."

"I hear that a lot." He sounded like he meant it, and John was inclined to believe him. "So, is it a date then?" His voice was hopeful, shamelessly so. John felt like saying no, just to see the look on his face, but it would have felt like kicking a puppy.

"I'll think about it. Give me your number. I'll text you."

John knew full well that Bobby knew he had him. His fake out was just part of the game. They both knew Bobby would get a text at four in the afternoon tomorrow, nonchalance woven into the fabric of each word, enquiring if the offer was still on the table. Bobby would dutifully reply that it was, and that would be that.

Bobby plugged his number into John's phone, as he bagged his stuff up. He handed it back to him with a smile, John inspecting his new contact — ♥️ Bobby ♥️. John met his eyes, one eyebrow raised, but said nothing.

"See you then, maybe," he said, head cocked to one side.

"I'll let you know,' he replied, Bobby waving him off as he made his way out the door. 

He called to him as his hand pressed against the cool metal of the door handle, his body temperature immediately warming it up.

"Oh, and by the way, most straight guys don't have four different leather jackets, Johnny."

John turned to him, face stern. Bobby couldn't tell if it was another set up.

"Listen, you may be cute, but please don't call me Johnny or I'll be forced to take action."

Bobby reared back, anxious that he may have not so much touched a nerve, but pinched it between his fingers and yanked on it

His tone was brisk, quick to reintroduce some lightness into the room, "Noted. Any particular reason?"

_ Nosy. _

_ Or maybe he cares _ .

John almost lied to him, and decided against it.

"Ex-boyfriend."

Bobby paled a little, sympathy colouring his words.

"Shit, sorry."

"Don't worry about it," he replied, and meant it.

* * *

"Okay. Give me names one more time please."

Bobby rolled his eyes, pointing out each of his friends where they were dispersed across the nightclub floor. He and John had been there for a few hours, sitting at a booth in a corner, shrouded in a hazy mist of smoke and artificial fog. Apparently the smoking ban hadn't quite penetrated the club's defences, which suited John just fine. Bobby had introduced him to his friends briefly, clearly desperate to get him on his own. They had seemed excited to meet him — he had figured Bobby would have spoken about him beforehand, but it didn't seem apparent — he shook hands, made small talk, and allowed himself to be whirled upstairs to a booth where Bobby had spent the night trying — and succeeding — to endear himself to him.

"That's Kyle at the bar, skinny kid with blond hair, looks miserable. That's Peter and Ororo on the dancefloor. No, he doesn't do steroids, and yes she's wearing a wig."

"I knew that was a wig Bobby, she had a mohawk in the Snapchat you sent me yesterday. And which one is Scott?"

Bobby shook his head as he swallowed a mouthful of his drink, "Scott's not here. He doesn't do clubs."

John nodded, "And Hank isn't here either. He's on the sports team, right?"

"Yeah. Honestly, I'm glad he stayed home."

"Why?" John hated to admit it but he was partial to a little interpersonal drama.

"Because there's absolutely no way you'd be sitting here with me if a guy like Hank was here."

"Oh wow."

"Yeah. I'm not sure if he swings like that but you never know. Better safe than sorry."

"I mean, you said Peter swings like that and  _ he's _ here," he replied, head inclining to Bobby's bodybuilder roommate, who had joined Kyle at the bar. He watched them talk, Kyle's face creased with laughter, and wondered if he looked at Bobby like that. "And yet, here I am. Although, I'm not sure I'd wanna try fight Ororo for custody. She looks like she could beat me up."

Ororo and Peter were going at it on the dancefloor, eliciting both amusement, awe, and anxiety from their fellows. Peter was huge, well over six feet and possibly just as wide. He looked like he had been built in a factory, and Bobby confided in John that he may well have been. Ororo was just as captivating as Peter, and John was a little sad that it hadn't been her working the register that night. Although he wouldn't have wanted to see what Peter would do if he stole his woman.

"They're not together."

"So why are they like  _ that _ ?"

If they weren't together, John wondered what it would look like if they were, as he had never seen two people dance like that who weren't up in each other's business seven nights of the week.

"I said they weren't  _ together,  _ not that they don't have sex."

"Right. So why is Kyle down there staring at them like a Chihuahua eyeing the mail guy through the window?" Peter had departed, leaving Kyle to whatever sour taste was scrunching his face into a twisted grimace, bringing Ororo some radioactive pink monstrosity in a tall glass. He had one of his own, and John watched their faces as they spoke. They were close, yes, but there was a clear distance, an invisible barrier that kept his hands from her waist, kept her eyes from lingering too long on his mouth. John didn't like to be nosy, but he couldn't help but wonder what their situation is.

Bobby barked a laugh, voice coated in liquor as he spoke —  _ shouted _ , even — into John's ear, drawing his attention back to the reason he had even come to the bar in the first place. His breath was freezing, somehow, and it sent a shiver up John's back, which he was sure Bobby felt, as his hand had been sitting pretty there the entire night. John shifted against him, moving closer. Bobby's hand slid further around his back, fingertips grazing his hip bones where his jacket had rucked up.

"Listen, you can't tell anybody this, okay."

"Are you really giving me gossip on our first date? You must really like me."

Bobby faltered for a minute, but his flirty smile reasserted itself on his face as he leaned in even closer to John, whisper-shouting into his ear. His lips moved against the ridge of John's ear as he spoke, and he questioned himself as to what exactly he was getting into with this guy. This boy who had seemed so earnest and innocent at the store. This boy who now had him wrapped around his little finger.

_ Goddamnit. _

"Kyle's got it bad for Pete. Won't tell him. Afraid he'll ruin their friendship."

John felt a pang of sympathy for Kyle, mixed with an eye-rolling sense of secondhand embarrassment at his melodrama.

"That sucks."

Bobby laughed again, something in John's disinterested tone clearly tickling him. He freed his arm from behind Bobby's tiny, muscled, waist, turning to fish out his lighter and cigarettes. He lit one up, watching the glow intently to make sure he didn't inadvertently start a blaze. He took a long pull, and let the smoke sit in his lungs for a minute, nicotine on an expressway straight to his brain. He let his head loll back against the seat behind them, eyes focused on the ceiling as he finally exhaled. He was acutely aware of Bobby's eyes on his face — his mouth, his throat — and offered the cigarette to him. Bobby leaned down, eyes locked on John's as he put his mouth to the filter where John held it, letting them fall shut as he inhaled. His mouth held open as he pulled off, tendrils of grey probing the air outside as he held the air in his lungs.

"You think of that one all by yourself?"

Bobby's act cracked a little, a coughing laugh blowing smoke out of his mouth in stuttering spurts, illusion broken. He leaned into John again, arm solid across his shoulders.

_ Fuck, I could use his bicep like a pillow. _

"I might have. Better question is, did it work?"

John answered his question with a hand half way up his thigh and his mouth on his. He tasted alcohol on Bobby's tongue, mixed with some unidentifiable sweetness that seemed to radiate from every part of his body. Bobby's arm shifted, hand cupped around his ass, pulling him close. John ratcheted things up a notch, hand crawling further and further up his pant leg, feeling the coiled strength in his muscles underneath the fabric. Bobby's mouth fell away with a panting sigh, forehead pressed to John's, eyes locked on his hand on his leg. John's middle finger grazed the space in between Bobby's legs, fingernail toying with the rim of his buttons.

"Careful there." Bobby's voice shook a little, and John was proud of himself for being able to pull at the threads of Bobby's little playboy pantomime.

John surged forward with his hand, grinding the heel of his palm into Bobby's crotch as he passed to run his fingernails across his abs and stomach. Bobby's eyelid twitched, and John could hear him choke a moan to death before it escaped his throat. Bobby wasn't letting him have it all that easily, but John knew he had him.

He leaned in, tongue running a line from Bobby's jaw to the lobe of his ear. His voice scratched in Bobby's ear — a metal fork raked across blazing coals — as his hand pinched at his side under his shirt.

"Take me home, Bobby."

Their eyes met again, and he couldn't help but notice the uneasy expression on Bobby's face.

"Shit. Was that too much? I'm sorry. I thought you were into it. We don't have to-"

Bobby's hand gripped his face, cheeks squeezed in between his fingers. He squished his mouth into a pucker, and spoke over him.

"It's not that.  _ Believe  _ me." His other hand pressed John's once more in between his legs, where he wasn't any less interested than before. John's hand squeezed it minutely, to his immense personal joy.

"So what's up?"

"I don't live alone." He jerked his head in the general direction of the dancefloor, "Those freaks live with me. Scott too. He's at home, no doubt waiting up for us in his nightgown with the newspaper. Thought I got away from my Dad when he kicked me out, but then I met Scotty."

Bobby seemed unperturbed by the familial trauma he had just spilled to John, unbidden, so he let it float past, unacknowledged.

"So come to mine, duh."

"I didn't wanna be the one to ask, 's your place dude."

John rolled his eyes, pulling out his phone.

"Suppose I gotta call the Uber, huh?"

Bobby smiled, that diamond bright, same as the first wash or your money back white, smile that John figured might be useful as some sort of weapon of mass control. Who could say no to a smile like that? Bobby's lips met his skin beneath his ear, his fingers slipping just underneath the waistband of his jeans, fingertips running a track across his skin. John's skin thrilled at the touch, hairs raising on his arms. He suppressed a shiver — Bobby's hands were freezing.

"I'll let the others know I'm leaving, I'll meet you outside, alright?"

John met his lips again, quickly, parting with light hands and soft smiles. Some distant part of his mind retched at their saccharine picture, two simpletons mistaking testosterone and pheromones for something else entirely. 

John knew what he was getting into. This didn't have to go beyond a hookup. 

_ Keep telling yourself that. _

Bobby met him outside as the car pulled up, and they bundled inside. They sat apart in the backseat, not wanting to give the driver a free show, but John's eyes stayed locked with Bobby's. Bobby sat slouched into the corner, head resting on his hand, fingers bracketing his face in an 'L' shape. His legs were bunched up against the back of the driver's seat, and John was struck once more by their size. Absently, he wondered what kind of sport it was that Bobby played. Hockey maybe. Rugby. He noticed a twitching movement in the fabric of Bobby's jeans, chuckling to himself as the source was identified.

He turned away, pulling out his phone, and texted Bobby from across the car.

_ Keep that thing under control, I don't wanna lose my rating. _

Bobby felt the vibration in his pocket, glancing confusedly at John before opening it. John watched him laugh silently to himself, moving his legs closed to hide himself.

_ Sorry.  _ 😅

John had planned to take control once they got upstairs. Maybe slam him up against the wall, maybe leave a mark on his neck that he'd have to explain to his friends the next day. Bobby clearly had other ideas. He rounded on John as the apartment door shut, hefting him into his arms, pushing his back up against the door. Bobby's mouth was on his, self-control thrown to the winds as he ground himself into John. His hands were strong where they held him, and John felt like it was barely an exertion. His own hands were everywhere at once — fingers tight in Bobby's hair as he whipped his head around to expose his neck, another hand pulling his jacket and shirt off, leaving Bobby exposed in the cold air of his apartment. Bobby let him down then, John's hands flying to his jeans to leave him naked, all in one swift movement. His mouth crashed against Bobby's once more, hands pushing him towards his room. As they fell to John's bed, tangling already in the unmade sheets, Bobby realized an obvious disparity.

"How come I'm naked and you're not?"

John smirked down at him, a hand running from Bobby's stomach up to his jaw, sailing past over the muscles in his arms. Bobby lay still under him, arms raised above his head. He was showing off. John, for once, was inclined to let him. His skin was so soft, John's fingers ghosting across it in little cryptic patterns, drawing affection with his fingernails that formed glyphs where the skin flushed red at the touch.

"Just couldn't wait, that's all." John relented finally, allowed Bobby to flip them over, to return the favor. His hands pushed his shirt up, exposing his stomach which Bobby's mouth made short work in covering with kisses. Bobby moved up his body as the shirt came off, a deep inhale as he buried his face into John's neck.

"This might sound weird, but you smell really good." 

Bobby didn't let him answer — coherently, at least — sinking his teeth into the flesh where his neck met his shoulder. John's body arced off of the bed, hips meeting Bobby's own which he pressed hard against him.

"Bobby," he rasped, voice hoarse with lust, "Get these off me now. I need to feel you."

Bobby grinned against his skin, hands working his belt open, whipping it out of the loops and across the room in one fluid motion. John heard the ping of a jean button as it took flight across the floor, caught Bobby's eye with a stern expression, mind gasping free from the humming pink fog behind his eyes.

"I'll get you a new pair. I promise."

He relaxed back down onto the mattress, knotting his fingers in Bobby's hair as he kissed along his stomach. He tried to squash his self-consciousness as Bobby's fingers sagged into John's doughy middle. He was aware of their distinct difference in body mass, but Bobby didn't seem to care a whole lot. He was hungry for it, and he didn't seem to care much what the packaging looked like. He pulled back minutely, spoke to John's skin, breath warm against the wet bruise he had sucked into his hip.

"What exactly are you up for tonight?"

His fingers massaged Bobby's scalp, and he felt him settle gently against him, cheek pressed to his stomach, arms bracketing his sides, a hand across his chest.

"Uh. Probably shouldn't go all the way. Short notice, you know."

"Yeah. If I had known, I coulda-"

" _ You  _ could have?"

Bobby's head raised, confusion scattered across his features, "Uhm, yeah. What? You think I don't do that? Baby, I do it all."

"Figured you'd be a strict top."

"What gave you that impression?"

John felt embarrassment colour his cheeks. He mumbled something under his breath, prompting Bobby to jostle him, a knuckle jabbed into his ribs.

"What was that?" His tone was mocking again. He knew full well what John had said, but he wanted to hear it.

"Fine. It was the muscles, okay?"

"You think I'm hot huh? My muscles turn you on baby?" His voice was exaggerated, something out of a dirty video, or a parody of one. He pushed himself up onto his hands, arms fully flexed as they supported his body weight. He was showing off again. John ran a hand up and down the length of his arm, enjoying how solid it felt 

John lifted his shoulders from the mattress, gesturing broadly with his hands, " _ Duh _ , idiot." Bobby laughed, voice hoarse already from the noise of the club, and returned to his position, trailing soft biting kisses all over John's inner thighs.

"I don't always talk this much during sex, by the way."

"I hope not, otherwise-"

Bobby cut him off by taking him into his mouth, any sentence that might have followed overpowered by the moan that wrenched itself out of John's chest.

"Bobby, Jesus Christ."

Bobby only hummed in response.

Bobby didn't fuck around, John thought absently. He took him to the edge and held him there for a while, letting him rock back and forth somewhere between tension and release. John's fingers never left his hair, delighting in the silk between his fingers as he cursed Bobby and any deity available to him in the interim. He reached for Bobby's hand, dragging it to his throat and squeezing around his fingers in silent instruction. Bobby looked up at him briefly, to confirm, and he nodded. He felt that strength in his grip, the one he knew was absent on that first meeting, held back, under control. But that control was lost now, fingers grasped tight across his throat, veins in his arm straining against his skin. He didn't last long after that, Bobby's hand meandering down his chest as his body bucked in release.

Bobby loomed over him, making it a point to swallow theatrically while looking him in the eye.

_ Drama queen. _

"Your turn."

"Not even a kiss first? You're selfish, Bobby."

Bobby's eyes practically rolled into the back of his head, but he lowered himself down, body fully in contact with John's along each burning inch. John didn't have enough data to know if Bobby always kissed like that — all tongue and saliva and insatiability — but he knew he wanted more. They pulled away gently, and Bobby held his gaze for a moment. His little act fell away again, heart exposed as the theatre technicians set up for the next scene. 

"Thanks for going out with me tonight. You hadn't been to the store in so long, I thought maybe you'd stopped coming."

"You miss me?"

Bobby laughed, self-conscious, "I did, a little."

There was genuine affection in his tone, and John felt his frigid heart crack just a little at the sound of it. He kissed Bobby's cheek with a gentleness that had been entirely absent for their entire evening, closing his eyes to the sensation of closeness.

Lust however had fought off his more noble intentions, sending him careening into oncoming traffic, and in between Bobby's legs. Part of him wished there was someone filming, so he'd be able to see what Bobby looked like from above. He laid, one hand on John's head, staying in charge of the proceedings, his other arm pulled up and around his own head. Bobby buried his face into the crook of his elbow, and John was worried he might tear a chunk out of himself as he finished, his cries muffled by the thick ropes of muscle in his arm as his teeth clenched into the skin.

John let himself admire for a moment as Bobby came down from his high. The guy was sculpted. And John had gotten him into his bed.

_ Not so out of my league after all. _

"Are you gonna come back down here or what?"

John looked at him, Bobby's arms splayed wide on the bed, palms open to him in invitation.

"Do you… are you asking me to cuddle?"

Bobby's face fell, "Oh. Sorry. I thought- Right, yeah, no, yeah I should get going, Scott will have a fit if I-"

John's hand fell to his chest, stopping him as he made to get up. Bobby relaxed again, face sheepish.

"I didn't think you  _ wanted _ to stay, Bobby. Not many guys do, lately." Bobby caught the hurt in his voice, not that it had been at all hidden. His hand reached for John's, and he held it.

"Well, I do."

And so he did. They fell asleep in a tight embrace, Bobby pressed up against him, one arm tight around his waist, the other pillowing his head which lay towards Bobby's, faces close, noses almost touching. Bobby was asleep in moments, a soft snore in John's ear which was cuter and far less grating than he might have expected. He took longer to follow, remaining struck by his calm as he drifted off, mind remaining most definitely un-tortured that night, as it replayed the sensation of Bobby's mouth on him, his voice in his ear, his endearing concern.

He woke once in darkness to an empty bed, ready to fall headlong into one of the many pits of despair which seemed endlessly dotted around his subconscious landscape. He felt the spiral coming unbidden as it always did, the void in his chest ready to boil him from the inside. He was already drafting the text in his head —  _ You could have woken me up first at least  _ — fully prepared to cut the memory of Bobby out of his mind and throw it on the pyre with all the rest of them. And then he heard the flushing water of his bathroom, heard the light switch flick, heard a pair of feet stumble in the dark to his sink. He waited for the creak of his door, waited for the clink of the glass against the nightstand. Bobby slid in beside him again, pulling him close, settling his nose in his hair. John came to him easily in his half-sleep, subconsciously nuzzling his face into the hollow of Bobby's neck. A hand ran up and down his back once, settling at the base of his spine as Bobby twined their feet together. Bobby's other arm rested under his head, cushioning his neck. His skin was soft, so soft, against John's cheek. He hummed in sleepy delight, a kiss stamped the underside on Bobby's chin, his lips grazing stubble, just beginning to grow in.

"Sorry if I woke you. Had to pee. Almost broke my foot again when I tripped on that coffee table out there."

John's voice was quiet, emotional. He was still a little drunk, to be perfectly honest.

"Thanks for not leaving."

Bobby inhaled as if he were about to speak again, but thought better of it. He kissed John's temple, squashing their bodies together as tightly as he could, breath rushing warm across the back of John's neck.

"Thanks for asking me to stay."

He fell once more to a dreamless sleep, Bobby's snore acting as some cacophonous lullaby, a paradoxical comfort. He was beginning to understand the popularity of white noise machines.


	2. Let's Make This A Moment To Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things move just that little step further.

John woke to a strong hand on his shoulder, body rustled out of the best sleep he had had in recent memory. He cursed whoever had decided to disturb him, his mind still running several hours late to the party. He blinked away stars in his vision as a shaft of morning light jabbed its way between his eyelids, pulling his pillow over his head.

"Go away."

Bobby's reply jolted him fully awake, memories of last night finally kicking down the front door of his consciousness.

"That's why I woke you. I gotta go."

John turned — slowly, conscious of his spinning head — and regarded him, propped up on his elbows. Bobby's shirt was on, no pants, no underwear, and he stood with his hands on his hips. John tried not to laugh.

_Lotta meat on those bones, huh?_

"Rest of your stuff is on the floor outside, I think," he said, gesturing with his head to the living room. Bobby gave him a thumbs up, returning fully clothed, seated beside him at the edge of the bed. John's hand wandered up his shirt and across his back, scratching idly.

"I don't wanna leave. I just got stuff to do. Sorry." He sounded genuinely disappointed, and John was disturbed by the sensation of longing which pawed at his heart like a cat with a dying bird.

"It's alright. I got more than I expected last night. Can't get greedy." There was a wink in his voice, an attempt to reintroduce that easy atmosphere that had pervaded their interactions so far. Bobby leaned back, resting his body against the crook of John's own. One arm reached down his legs, hand gripping his foot, while the other stroked his face. His fingers were gentle — gentle enough that John felt the tendrils of sleep threatening to overtake him once more, their spell broken only by Bobby's voice, cutting through the silence.

"I'd like to see you again, if that's alright."

John's heart thrilled at the prospect, to his disappointment. He thought he would have at least been able to feign aloofness for a couple of more dates.

"I'd like that too."

Bobby's face broke into that same grin as before, and John returned it in earnest.

"Can I have a kiss before I leave?"

Bobby laid in his arms for a while, a too-sweet kiss shared between them that lasted longer than either anticipated. Bobby had evidently gotten last night's hunger under wraps. His mouth was soft against John's, previous desperation gone, replaced by a seeking sweetness which, coupled with the minute touch of his fingers against his cheek, sent John into a gentle delirium. He allowed himself to sink into sensation, mind half-asleep. Bobby eventually pulled away with a sigh, huffing in disappointment. He stood, but not before planting a final kiss on John's forehead. John cursed himself for the sigh that escaped as Bobby's lips met his skin, cursed himself for falling that easily for a nice smile and a pair of huge thighs.

_Pathetic._

"I'll text you during the week, okay? I'm gonna be busy for a few days but maybe we can work something out soon?" Bobby's voice swam in the upper reaches of his tone, pitched higher in anxious hope of reciprocated feelings.

He was nervous, again.

"I'd like that."

John smiled at him, genuine, and Bobby returned it with one of his own. He slipped out quietly, front door catching behind him with a near-silent click. 

John rolled onto his back, returning his eyes to the crack on the ceiling once again. It was almost a comfort in itself at that point, a visual totem around which he could arrange his thoughts. Unfortunately, his thoughts seemed only to want to focus on Bobby — his thousand-watt smile, his voice in John's ear the night before, his hands up and down his body as they moaned into one another's mouths, his arms across his chest in the night.

"Well. That'll do it, won't it."

Head over heels for a convenience store clerk after one night together.

Nice one, John.

* * *

Bobby knew full well he was a negative presence in the jet as the team flew back to the city. Scott had called him out on his aggression in the field that day, his shards of ice flying far too close to the rest of the team for safety. Bobby sat next to him in the co-pilot's chair, forced to listen to his lecture as he brought the jet into civilian airspace. Bobby felt the droop in his stomach, unable to identify if it came from the shift in altitude, or his foul mood.

"All I'm saying is, you need to be more careful with your ice, Bobby. You almost knocked Storm out of the air, and there's a huge rip in Colossus's suit where you snagged him."

Bobby scrubbed a hand up and down his face, fingers massaging his temple, willing his voice calm before he responded.

"I know, Scott. I know. I already apologized, what do you want?"

"I wanna know what's up, Bobby. I've never seen you like that before."

"It's nothing. I'm not any kind of way."

Scott turned to him, eyes inscrutable under his visor, and nodded.

"Whatever you say. I'm here if you want to talk, that's all."

"Can I go now?"

Scott shrugged, waving him off, eyes focused on the skyline.

Bobby flopped onto one of the seats at the back of the jet, slouching, legs wide, arms folded, expression miserable. Ororo and Peter stood off to one side, conversing quietly. He caught Peter stealing a glance at him, saw his hand where it gripped Ororo's hip lightly. He leaned in to her, a kiss on her cheek as he made his way to Scott, loudly discussing battle tactics and contingency plans. She sat next to Bobby in the next available chair, head resting on her hand as she regarded him softly.

"What's going on, Bobby?"

His eyes hit the roof of the jet, willing himself to calm before he said something he'd regret.

"Nothing." His voice was clipped. She grimaced, one hand reaching for his knee.

"Talk to me. Please. I'm not talking to you as Storm here Bobby, I'm your friend, remember?"

He exhaled heavily, body shifting in the chair so he was turned to her. They leaned together, heads close, as he spoke in a tone hushed to disguise it to any creeping ears in the area.

"I met a guy."

"This is the dude from the other night, yeah? Convenience store insomniac?"

"Yeah."

"So what's going on?"

"What do you think, Ororo? I like him."

"So? Tell him?" Her voice was coloured with confusion, clearly not privy to the perils of dating non-mutants.

"How am I supposed to go out with him, Storm? How are we supposed to have a normal relationship?"

"Hey, lots of people date mutants now! It's not illegal or anything."

"I'm not concerned about that. I'm more concerned about the fact that every time I try to organize something with him, I realize I'm going to have to flake because some super-powered nimrod decides he wants to take over the world and we have to intervene."

The reality of Bobby's situation finally hit her. She and Peter were the only other members of the team in any kind of relationship, and that was with each other. Even then, it wasn't serious enough to affect their missions. Her hand reached for Bobby's across the aisle, and she held it.

"I'll talk to Scott. It's not fair that you're always the one that gets the call to leave on short notice. You deserve a life too, Bobby. Outside of the team."

He relaxed into the seat, eyes and voice losing the fire that had so brightly blazed before. "Look, I don't want to quit or anything. I just-"

Ororo raised her hand to silence him, face placid.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me. I'll talk to him."

"Thank you."

"You gotta do something for me though," she replied, her face plastered with a smirk that could have turned his legs to jelly, were he so inclined. "What's he like?"

"You guys met him, what else do you wanna know?"

"I mean, we said hi, and then you whisked him off to those booths. I saw what y'all got up to up there, by the way." 

Bobby's face went red as she spoke, wrestling with the desire to hide his face in his hands.

"We were drunk. At least we're not as bad as you and Pete."

"Few are. C'mon, tell me about him, what's he like?"

Bobby told her everything he knew about John which, he realized, was very little. He confided in her that he worried about him — that his insomnia might have been what brought him to Bobby, but that it was still disconcerting to see someone so regularly at four in the morning. Ororo seemed interested, quietly admiring Bobby's change in demeanour as he spoke at length about his new man.

Scott motioned over to him as he brought the jet down where Bobby was to be let out. 

"Hey. Storm talked to me about that guy you've been seeing. I didn't know about all that, Bobby. I'm sorry."

"It's fine, man. You didn't know. Not your fault."

Scott's hand found his shoulder, squeezing it once, "Still. I'm your team leader but I'm also your friend, I hope. I'm gonna give you some time off from missions like this for a while, alright? You'll still be on recon at the store, but otherwise we'll be calling Angel for the foreseeable future."

"I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

"He can cope. It's not fair to you."

Bobby wanted to hug Scott, but he knew very well that Scott wasn't a hugger. He settled for a hand on his shoulder and a firm pat.

"Thanks."

* * *

It was Friday when John finally got that text from Bobby, almost a full week since he had left his apartment. John wanted to believe that he hadn't been bothered by the lack of contact, but he knew he was only fooling himself when that pang of joy shot through his chest as he saw Bobby's name appear on the screen.

_Hey_

_Sorry it took me so long to get back to you_

_Lotta stuff going on_

_Dw_

_Did all your stuff go okay?_

John felt a little foolish — he hadn't even asked what it was Bobby was busy with. If you had asked him before that afternoon, gun to his head, if he truly believed that Bobby was busy and not just flaking on him, you would have been cleaning his brains off the walls long before you would have gotten an answer.

_All good, all done_

_That's good_

There were a few moments of nothing then, three dots under Bobby's name starting and stopping as he clearly wrangled his thoughts into text form.

_Are you free?_

_When?_

_Now_

John's doorbell rang.

He padded across the living room, glancing through the peephole. And sure enough, there he was, Bobby, distorted by the fisheye of the glass, gigantic head swivelling on a teeny body. He pulled the door open, Bobby meeting him with an embarrassed smile.

"I didn't think you'd remember where I lived."

"Me either. I got the wrong floor on my first try. Your upstairs neighbor doesn't seem to get many visitors, she kept me there for like twenty minutes before she'd tell me where you lived."

"Yeah," he replied, ushering Bobby inside, "Doreen is a nice lady. I helped her with her groceries once and since then she sends down a loaf of banana bread once a month." He jerked his head to the kitchenette, where one such loaf sat, halfway gone.

"Can I have some?"

"Go ahead. Gimme your coat, I'll put it over on the thing." John had tried not to comment on the jacket, some high school varsity monstrosity with Robertson stitched across the back. Bobby was a big guy, but the jacket hung loose on him, clearly a size too big. "Hang on," he said, inspecting the name once more. Bobby turned, and regarded him, mouth stuffed with banana bread.

"Wha?"

"Your name is Bobby, right?” A nod. “So, short for Robert. Does that mean your name is Robert Robertson?"

Bobby swallowed, shaking his head.

"Jacket's not mine. My highschool boyfriend gave it to me after graduation. We broke up over that summer, but I never gave it back. My last name is Drake."

"You're a headcase," he said, hooking the jacket onto one of the inserts by the door.

Bobby shrugged, palms up, "Says more about you that you let me in, doesn't it?"

John joined him at the counter, leaning towards him over the plate.

"True. Which reminds me, why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you again." His voice was soft, guilt drooping his shoulders. John suddenly became weary that he may be falling for a dog who had found a way to make itself appear human. He resisted the urge to scratch him behind the ears, and let him continue. "I've been busy with stuff for the team all this week, and I finally let them know that it wasn't fair that I had to keep picking up the slack while _other people_ got to sit on their ass at home and do nothing." He paused, his evident frustrations having exhausted themselves, his usual joking mood returning, "Well, I told _Storm_ all that, and then _she_ told Cyke."

"Who?"

Bobby tried his best to keep the alarm bells in his head from completely drowning out his thoughts.

"Sorry. Everybody on the team's got a nickname. I've been doing so much stuff with them lately that I'm still in that mode." He rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment, a self-deprecating smile spreading across his features. "Ororo is Storm, and then Cyclops, Cyke, is Scott."

John nodded, and Bobby was glad that he seemed satisfied with that.

"Should I ask where they got those?"

"Well Storm is pretty self-explanatory, she's like a hurricane on the field, and everyone just kind of lets her do what she wants. And then Cyke hits hard but the dude just has no depth perception at all." Bobby accompanied his explanations with pantomimes — mimicking Ororo's propensity for knocking down men twice her size, as well as Scott's complete inability to judge distances properly.

Bobby was quietly proud of himself for having come up with all of that on the spot.

"And you? What do they call you?"

Bobby grinned again, a flash of white, "Iceman."

"Let me guess, because you're a cool guy?"

"You think I'm cool?" he replied, a laugh already lined up behind his words.

John cracked then, their heads falling close as they laughed together. Bobby surprised him, a quick kiss on his mouth, and a finger stroking gentle circles across the back of his hand. He tasted like bananas and brown sugar.

"I did have another reason for coming here today." His voice was low —loose gravel crunching in his throat, in direct contrast with the sweetness that coated his tongue — as he spoke to John's jaw, lips barely grazing the skin.

"Oh yeah?" John tried to quiet the waver in his tone. Bobby had caught him in just the right circumstances.

"Felt a little disappointed that we didn't get to go all the way the other night. Thought I'd make it up to you, if you want."

John met Bobby’s raised eyebrows with a smirk of his own, a hand tight on his arm. 

"And I'm supposed to just be prepared for it just like that? What kinda porno you think this is, Bobby?"

Bobby pinched his earlobe with his teeth, grinding just sharply enough to hurt before letting it go again, speaking roughly in a whisper.

"I never said you'd have to take it."

Bobby led him around the kitchen island into an embrace, chests close, his head just a few inches above John's. John gripped his arms above the elbow, thumbs arcing across his muscles in a regular pattern. Bobby grabbed one, dragged it slowly down his side, and around to the back, urging John's fingers to slip past the waistband of his jeans.

John let himself be led, fingertips grazing the band of Bobby's underwear. The sudden intrusion of skin once more, unexpected but not unwelcome, stretched John's smirk into a toothed grin not unlike Bobby's own.

"Figures you'd own a couple of these. What with the sports and all."

Bobby chuckled, a wink in his voice again, "Baby, these aren't for sports, I promise you that."

Some time later came time for John to step up to the plate, to knock it out of the park, as it were. He had left Bobby in a fairly undignified position — on all fours, naked as the day he was born — while he ran to grab a towel. Bobby didn't seem to mind much, as he hadn't so much as moved a muscle when he returned. He glanced behind him, expression pleasantly neutral. His body swayed gently from side to side, moving along to a tune only Bobby could hear.

"You good to go?"

John wasn't sure.

Yes, he was in position. Yes, he was up for it — as it were. But there was rather a large problem staring him in the face.

"Bobby."

"What's up?"

"I'm not sure if I'm… if I've…"

"John, what's wrong?" Bobby wasn't frustrated exactly, but he had certainly hoped for _something_ to have happened by now.

"I don't think I've got enough."

"Enough what?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Drake, don't make me say it."

"Baby, I'm lost right now, you're gonna have to-"

"Your ass is too big, Bobby. I haven't got enough cable to plug in."

"Oh my god."

"It's like trying to hit the bullseye between a pair of beanbags."

"I'm going to kill you. I swear to God."

It was then that Bobby broke position finally, whirling himself around so he and John knelt face to face on the bed. He glanced up at Bobby, slightly fearful that their encounter might be over before it had even begun. Bobby pulled their hips together, foreheads joined as they watched his hand work them both. He caught John's lower lip between his own, tongue probing his mouth open. John let himself be overwhelmed by the sensation, Bobby's other hand holding him steady where it sat on his lower back. His palms flattened against Bobby’s chest, an appreciative hum running between them. He wasn’t sure whose throat the sound rumbled from, but it definitely didn’t matter. Bobby maintained composure, never falling into hunger. He kept John hanging on the edge, just like before, letting them revel in the moment, rather than chasing a high that sat somewhere in a vague and nebulous future.

Bobby was very good at this.

When he was satisfied with his job, he moved his hand to John's shoulder.

"Get on your back."

"Are you gonna-"

"Yeah."

He did.

As Bobby aced his dismount, John inspected his lower half for damage, expecting his bulk to have pounded his pelvis into a fine dust. He was glad to find that he hadn't been reduced to a tenderized pork loin by the sheer force of Bobby's own lower half colliding with him at a, frankly, ungodly speed.

The meat tenderizer in question stood off to the side of his bed, towelling off a mixture of sweat and Swiss Navy that had rendered him simultaneously sticky and shiny. John held his hand out for the towel, but Bobby did him one better, running it across his flushed skin himself. John let himself be caressed — it wasn't every day you got a rub down by someone who looked like he got rejected from Sean Cody for being too perfect looking.

"I'm more of a TimTales guy myself. Sean Cody's a little overproduced."

John froze, body tensed under Bobby's hand.

"Did I say that out loud?"

"Yes. Thank you for that, I absolutely will be letting that go to my head."

Bobby returned to the bed, flat on his stomach, face propped up on an arm as he drew a line with his finger from the centre of John's forehead to the tip of his nose, and back again. John settled in the covers, eyes fluttering open as he observed Bobby’s face. His eyes crawled across his features, as if he were committing them to memory. His trailing finger dipped below the bridge of his nose, a line traced across his lips and down his chin. He caught John’s eye, and his almost imperceptible smile bloomed across his entire face, a private laugh rattling in his chest.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" John asked him.

"Like what?"

"Like you're falling for me."

Bobby chuckled, hand sweeping across John’s face to cup his jaw, pulling him over for a kiss that sat warm and firm against both of their mouths. He pulled back, head close to John's where he lay, and regarded him with an expression that he hoped approximated seriousness.

"Maybe I am? Should I not?"

"That depends," he replied, fingers idly searching for non-existent fluffs on Bobby's skin as he avoided his eye. John hated baring his heart to people — it made him feel like a heroine in the YA novels his sister used to read, in love with the first guy that came along looking like he had a bad attitude and an iron deficiency. "Do you want this to be just a hookup, or what?"

"Awful upfront for a second date, huh?"

"Is that what this is?"

"Well, it's not over yet." Bobby paused, running his fingers through John's hair, affixing it in the shape he was more familiar with. He sighed, meeting John's expectant eyes, "I don't know what I want right now, John. Can we try this out for a while? See what happens?"

John caught it in his voice, the hesitancy, the lingering anxiety. Bobby may be hotter, and have cooler friends — or just friends, period — but he carried the same lingering disquiet as John. The same fear of being alone, coupled with a paradoxical distaste for vulnerability.

He decided to bite the bullet.

"I don't know what I'm looking for either, to be honest. But I also know that when you stayed over last time, I had the best damn night's sleep of the last eight years."

Bobby smiled again, scratching at the hair on John's cheek. He shifted in the bed, draping himself lightly across John's chest, head rising and falling with his breaths. Their faces were close, and Bobby spoke quietly to him, a finger circling in the hollow of his throat.

"So, it's definitely too early for this. _However_ , I gotta know cause I don't wanna get jerked around again."

"Shoot."

"Are we gonna keep this just between us? Even if we're just trying something out?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, are we gonna be… exclusive? Is that the word?"

"You got a bunch of guys on rotation, Bobby? That it?"

Bobby's grin didn't falter, but it did gain a slight undercurrent of melancholy as he replied, "Can I be honest with you?"

John braced for impact. "Go ahead."

"You're the first guy since my highschool boyfriend who I've gone on a second date with, assuming this is one."

"How long ago was that?"

"We dated in senior year. I'm turning 24 in the summer."

John's hand moved to stroke through Bobby's just-trimmed hair, his other thumb ghosting a line across his lips. He watched Bobby's eyes close, watched him give in to the sensation as he awaited John's response. 

He was beautiful.

_And he's all yours. Unless you fuck it up._

"I figure those guys must be missing out then, huh?"

"Guess so."

* * *

They spent Friday evening at a restaurant — safely on the other side of the city from John's old place. Bobby laughed at all of his jokes and John shook his head at Bobby's endless stream of blather. Bobby told him about his friends, about their team, and by the end of it all John felt like he could have been a member of it all along. Bobby walked him home on Friday night, stood with him as he opened the door to his complex. It was cold for the season, and so they had walked close, John's hand wrapped in Bobby's, held in the pocket of his jacket. They were halted at the door as John fumbled with frozen fingers for his keys, Bobby standing close — close enough to feel his chest against his back with every inhale. John tried not to lean back into him too eagerly, turning to him as the door finally unlocked after several awkward moments of jiggling metal.

"You wanna come up? Unless you got somewhere to be tomorrow."

"I got the month off, Captain's orders."

"Maybe we could do stuff tomorrow then too? I-if you want," John replied, suddenly nervous. He figured he was pushing too hard, that his loneliness was all-too apparent under his affected charade. Bobby smiled, genuine, a hand snaking up to massage his neck lightly. He kissed his neck, motioning with his head that they go inside.

They split a bottle of wine together on the couch, a movie playing almost-muted on television as John did everything in his power to distract Bobby from it. Bobby didn't much like wine, but he found himself willing to pretend for John's sake. He had trailed red-lipped kisses up and down John's chest, shirt discarded somewhere on the floor behind them. As John's pants came off and Bobby moved him to his lap, he could taste the wine again, acidic and electric on John's tongue. That same tongue that dragged across his jaw, up to his ear, where John voiced desire in words stained burgundy.

“You wanna go for a ride?”

Bobby’s hands shifted from where they clenched his hips, moving around to the back. He contemplated for a moment, trailing his nose across John’s chest, burying his face in the crook of his neck, which he spoke to.

“How about I let you take it for a spin, huh?”

“This metaphor is getting away from us, I think.”

Bobby introduced a little more of his anatomy into the equation. John got the hint.

“Gimme a sec.”

He vaulted over the back of the couch — and Bobby — diving into his room to retrieve what they needed. Bobby was naked when he returned, and John had to quiet the part of his brain that balked at the thought of his bare ass on his couch. 

_Time and a place._

“You think we need this?” he asked, gesturing to the tiny plastic square held between his fingers.

Bobby shrugged, “I’m all clear, but I can’t prove that to you, can I? It’s your body dude.”

John weighed the possibilities in his head. He placed the square on the table, to be forgotten.

“I’ll take my chances. Figure you’re trustworthy.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to assume.”

“I like to live on the wild side.”

He lowered himself onto Bobby’s lap once more, hands tight on his shoulders for balance. Bobby was gentle — soft hands, soft voice. It took some encouragement from John for him to pick up the pace — John had contemplated a slap to the face before he finally planted his feet and went to town.

John finished with white in his vision, eyes rolled back into his skull, his and Bobby's pulses matched where they were joined. Bobby panted against him, chests heaving together, heat and pressure and sweat mingling in between them. John rested their foreheads together, breathing returning to a regular rate as Bobby’s hands ran up and down his back. He blinked suddenly, conscious of the fact that he had fallen asleep for what may have been much longer than the split second it felt. He whispered to Bobby, voice discarded in favour of an almost inaudible hum in his ears.

“Bobby, let’s go to bed.”

A nod against him and Bobby hoisted him into his arms, at once delightful and disconcerting, carrying him to John's bedroom. John borrowed Bobby's sweatshirt, and Bobby found himself staring, wondering how he could convince this man to never take it off again. They stood in the moonlight that streamed in through the window, more powerful than the sodium lights that threatened to wash them out in shades of ashen orange. Bobby inclined his head as John rearranged the sheets, placing fresh ones over the mattress, having banished the set they had used the day before to his laundry hamper.

"Which side is yours?"

"I usually toss all night, so just go wherever."

Bobby slid under the covers first, regarding John with an easy inquisitiveness, as if trying to discern some inner secret just from looking at his face.

"What's up, Brown-Eyes?"

Bobby smiled at the nickname, and shook his head, "Just thinking."

"That explains why you looked like you were in pain."

"You know what," Bobby said, a pillow in his hand, ready to fire. 

"I kid, I kid." John raised his hands in acquiescence, or perhaps self-defense. He brought himself to kneel on the mattress, arms folded as he awaited Bobby’s response.

"I was actually thinking about how nice today was." His voice quietened, emotion threatening to swallow his words whole, "Been a long time since I felt like that."

"Like what?"

"Like me."

John worked his way under the covers, groping beneath the sheet for Bobby's thigh, which he laid a warm hand on.

"What do you mean?"

Bobby inhaled deeply, sighing out a breath as if to whoosh away his negative thoughts.

"It's just that when you're on a team, and you're with them so often — living with them, eating with them, just _being_ with them 24/7 — you can kind of lose that sense of individuality. I liked talking to you because you made me feel like I was Bobby, not Bobby number thirteen, the back defenseman."

"Glad I could do that for you, Bobby."

Bobby was curled in on himself under the blanket, arms tucked to his chest, but he let his forehead sag to meet John's.

"Can I have a kiss goodnight?"

Part of John wondered why he always asked. The other half of him revelled in Bobby's innocence, the loveable earnestness with which he approached affection. John met his mouth softly, lips parted only slightly to share breaths, and twined his fingers into the hair at the side of Bobby's head. They parted, one last kiss — barely a peck on the lips — before they settled into sleep together, limbs locked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No need for notes, this stuff is all getting posted on the same day.
> 
> Again, if you're enjoying it, be sure to let me know wherever you feel like, I read all my comments.


	3. Circled Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grand finale.

John awoke before him that Saturday morning, mind adjusting slowly to the transition from dream to reality. And what a transition it was. Motion in darkness — two voices hushed in tone, waist deep in the warm sea of desire. That warmth faded into heat, searing and effusive, pulsing across his skin where it was joined with Bobby's across every inch of their bodies. They had shifted in the night, Bobby's upper body sprawled across his chest, arms curled possessively at his sides. John's fingers had woven into his short hair, counting his breaths in time with Bobby's, equilibrium achieved.

His arm moved down, shifted to sweep across the skin of Bobby's shoulders, to investigate the muscles that lay just beneath. Bone and sinew revealed itself under his touch, shifting and settling with each heave of Bobby underneath him. There were bruises — blooming across the field of his back in shades of lavender and ochre, the oldest among them having faded to an almost imperceptible blemish against the white of his skin. There were scars, some tiny, some large and vicious looking. John traced one where it began on his ribcage, following the line where it ended almost at the base of his spine.

"What happened to you, Bobby?" he whispered, quietly enough not to disturb his sleep.

His hand traced patterns across the skin of Bobby's back, fingertips gentle as they grazed along in their meanderings. He let his mind disengage, allowed himself to just enjoy the peace for a while, to enjoy the presence of a body in his bed who seemed to want to be there.

He hoped.

Bobby was still until he wasn't, snore hitching suddenly as the process of waking began. A sharp inhale, a tensing of his shoulders as he stretched them into action, a slow kiss to John's body where he rested against it. His head shifted in John's hands, barely-open eyes tilted up to regard him.

"Morning."

"It is indeed."

Bobby continued to stretch, raising his upper half on his arms like a dog waking from a nap in the sun, before flopping back down at John's side, a hand raised to his face. He ghosted the backs of his fingers across John's cheek, drawing his face to his own with a leading hand. Bobby met his mouth gently, lips barely touching. He drifted up, connecting his mouth with John's forehead, pulling him into his chest.

"You were in my dream." Bobby's voice was a rumble through John's frame, face pressed into the meat of his upper body. Bobby smelled like stale cigarettes and whatever his cologne was — the decaying nicotine a direct result of having spent the night in John's sheets. He made the mental note to clean the place up before Bobby got there next time. 

He wore a chain, plated in gold, a tiny medallion at the end — The Madonna, haloed and beatific as ever. Catholic, huh. That explained his situation downstairs, at least.

"I hope it was a good dream."

Bobby's hips ground against his under the covers, eliciting a huffed breath and a tightened grip around his back. John was acutely aware that they absolutely were not leaving enough space for the Holy Spirit down there.

"It was."

Bobby moved under the covers, mouth trailing heat and wetness across John's skin as he sought his destination between his legs. John's fingers found his hair again, knuckles scrunched tight as he tried to stop himself from slamming his hips into Bobby's mouth. Bobby's hands were animated, tracing lines and maps all over John's skin as he busied himself. His hand wrapped around John's calf as he finished, squeezing it tight to match the tension in the hands that felt welded to his scalp.

He returned to his position above the covers, John heaving breaths beside him. He grinned widely at him, a kiss to his nose as he stroked a line from temple to jaw to calm him.

"You always wake up like that, Drake?"

"I've been known to."

"Fuck, dude." A sigh trailed from John's mouth as he spoke, shuddering around his words as one of Bobby's hands on his back sent the ripples of an aftershock coursing up his spine.

"I know we're supposed to be taking this slow, so forgive me if I'm too forward. But you're so fuckin' pretty. I wouldn't mind waking up to this on the regular." 

John was taken aback. He had figured Bobby had some material interest in his body, but he wasn't expecting that. Bobby could have any guy he wanted, with a body like that. But here he was, lying in John's sheets that had a higher percentage content of nicotine than cotton.

"You need to stop."

Bobby's face fell, hand moving to pull away from John's face, "Sorry, I shouldn't have-"

John placed his hand over Bobby's, pressing it close to the skin, "No. Not 'stop this is too much I don't like it', 'stop because you're gonna make me fall for you even harder than I am already'." A pause, a realization making itself known with all the subtlety of an earthquake in a pottery store, "And I'm honestly not sure how bad that would be." 

His smile was genuine, bewildered at his admission. Bobby grinned back, clearly pleased that he wasn't pushing up against a brick wall.

"Tell me what you want to do today. Anything at all. I'll pay, I don't care." 

"You do owe me a pair of jeans."

Bobby nodded, another kiss waiting for him as he leaned into John again. 

"We'll go shopping."

A pause, John reaching down to grip Bobby in his hand.

"In a while."

* * *

In the end, Bobby did buy him those jeans. He also bought him dinner. He let John get their ice cream on the way home. John figured the dessert was a trick — Bobby knew John wouldn't finish his, and was looking to score ends. He indulged him — let the baby have his bottle. It meant John got to watch him for longer without him talking. He got to watch the way the muscles in his neck moved as he ate, got to watch a white trail of vanilla take a slow stroll down his hand, almost reaching his elbow before John saw to it with a napkin.

"Thank you," he said, words spoke around rapidly-melting ice cream, tongue numb and overloaded with sugar.

"If you eat other stuff the way you eat that ice cream I might just have to keep you around." 

John had hoped the joke was obvious, but Bobby paused for a moment, face thoughtful, before it coalesced into his open mouthed look of enlightenment.

"Sorry, I'm a little slow. Mom had me tested."

"And what did the test say?"

"That I'm gay."

John stared straight ahead, willing himself not to crack. Bobby disposed of his trash, and caught up to him, a finger wiggling under his shirt collar.

"I know you wanna laugh at that, you're  _ dying _ to. Look at your face, you're absolutely killing yourself not to laugh right now." 

John tried to turn away from him, but Bobby caught a hold, arms around his waist from behind as he pulled him close.

"Bobby!" John's voice shrilled with laughter, hands clasping in a vain attempt to extricate himself from Bobby. "I'm gonna be sick, c'mon!"

Bobby loosened his grip but didn't release fully, forcing them to walk as one unit. John leaned back into him, mouth finding his cheek in the cold evening air, and he planted a kiss just past his ear. Bobby leaned into the warmth, an easy smile on his face.

"You're so warm."

_ You don't know the half of it. _

As John slept curled against him that night, Bobby watched his face. Those same lights on the street outside — so familiar now to Bobby — set John's face and neck ablaze. Where others looked sick, washed out and distorted in the cheap, harsh sodium light, John radiated, shining in some eerie, otherworldly way. He looked at home in the artificial twilight, a denizen of a gloom that didn't so much reflect his mood but his whole affect. He was a creature of the night, and Bobby was a dead rabbit in his mouth.

His hair — normally a light brown, similar to Bobby's own — shone like an open flame against the white of the pillow. Heat pulsed off of him in waves, covers discarded in favour of the embrace of Bobby's limbs and his own. His fingers were drawn tight around the space in between his body and Bobby's, gripping without purchase.

_ Feeling without touching. _

His head lay towards Bobby, mouth parted slightly as sleep ferried air in and out of his lungs. Bobby had never wanted a moment to last like this one. He contemplated staying awake all night, watching John's face throughout, desperate to preserve every moment.

_ Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. _

Bobby was in trouble.

As if eavesdropping on Bobby's romantic revelation, John shifted minutely in his sleep, head nuzzling up against the skin above Bobby's heart. His breath was warm and, if he closed his eyes and imagined, he could believe that they were two minds in one body, two halves of a whole.

It was their third date, officially, and Bobby was in love.

* * *

John cooked dinner on Sunday — which they agreed should probably be the last day they saw each other for a while, if only to allow themselves time to separate sex, intimacy and romantic interest from one another, to examine their burgeoning relationship outside of the confines of one another's presence.

"I don't want to think I like you just because my brain is constantly pumping endorphins because we're never apart, you know?"

Bobby smiled around the rim of his glass, taking a sip of the beer he had made John buy them. He had had enough of wine, and John was happy to oblige him.

"Yeah. Probably for the best. Although, if your brain is lighting you up with serotonin whenever I'm around, is that not just what liking someone is?"

John gestured to him sharply with a plastic spatula, "Don't start. Big part of getting you out of here is so I can get the smell of cigarettes off of my furniture before you come over again. You're out of here until further notice." He smirked, returning to stirring his pasta with the spatula — the remains of his wooden spoon only a scorch mark on the ceiling. "Or, I could come visit your place?" he enquired, head tilted.

Bobby took another sip of his beer, a moment's pause as he lined up some excuse. For a moment though, he came up short. Why  _ couldn't _ John come visit? Maybe he was okay with mutants, maybe it wouldn't bother him that Bobby could turn his whole body to ice and back again. Maybe it wouldn't bother him that he was on a team of wannabe-Avengers who patrolled North America, putting their necks out to stop every nutcase who decided they wanted to replace all the dairy in the world with sulphuric acid, and who had built a matter-restructuring machine by hand in order to do so.

Captain Lactose Intolerant — as Bobby had named him — hadn't been the most personable of their adversaries, but he had gone down fairly easily.

"Bobby, you okay?"

He jolted back to reality. Back to John's kitchen. Back to their weekend of bliss. Back to normality. 

Something he wasn't very familiar with.

His hand tightened on his glass, so much so that he put it down for fear of it shattering. 

"I'll talk to the guys, see if you could come over and not get harassed."

He stole behind John at the stove, a kiss on his neck as he moved around him to get their plates.

As they sat and ate, Bobby voiced a concern which had been piqued over their time together.

"So. I know you got let go from that restaurant, and that you've been… um... not working for a while."

"Yeah."

"Are you… is everything okay, money-wise? Like, I can find you a job at the store, or whatever it's no prob-"

John raised his hand to quiet Bobby, well aware already that he was going to babble on incessantly.

"I'm qualified to teach math to high schoolers. I finished my degree in the fall just past. I had the job at the restaurant during the semester and I stayed there after I graduated, figured I'd be better off with something since none of the schools in the area were hiring. I sent off some applications for positions starting next fall a while back. Deadlines were about three weeks ago though, and I haven't heard back."

Bobby's face fell from where it had risen, gloom colouring his features, "Oh. I'm sorry. That doesn't sound good."

"No. But it's fine, I'll find something. I have savings. My parents had a college fund for me, so at least I'm not saddled with debt, you know?" He shrugged, attempting to appear the picture of nonchalance, “Could have it worse.” 

Bobby wasn't convinced, but he let the matter drop.

"Sorry for bringing the mood down."

"It's alright. You gotta take the good with the bad, no?"

Bobby still wasn't convinced.

* * *

It was two in the morning when Bobby got the call. 

They had fallen asleep tightly together that night, Bobby cradling John's weight against him, unwilling to let their weekend finish. He soothed his racing mind to the exquisite heat that flowed between their bodies where they were joined. John had confided to him before they slept that he hadn't ever been much of a cuddler.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize… we could- if it would make you more comforta-"

John silenced him with a kiss, hand patting his side gently, "I like it, with you." 

Bobby fought back the waver in his throat, hid his face in John's hair so he wouldn't see the euphoria plastered across it — a neon billboard with “I’m a lovestruck sap” blazing across it in red.

He fell asleep to the smell of apple and cigarette smoke in John's hair, quietly cursing himself for letting his heart fall that quickly for someone who might never accept him for who he really was.

John jolted awake before Bobby, shaking him roughly.

"Bobby! Bobby!"

Bobby groaned, batting at his hands with his own — two paddles weighed down in the weeds of dreaming. His hand froze as the sound registered, his eyes flying open. He flipped over, covers trapped around his midsection as he snatched his screeching phone from the nightstand. John felt the anger coursing through Bobby. It came off him in pulses, each breath heaved through his lungs like he needed it over with as soon as possible. He placed a hand on his shoulder, right over a particularly nasty bruise, and willed him calm. Bobby's hand reached around, and he thought for a split second that he would tear John's fingers away. But, he didn't. He laid his hand over John's, one squeeze to match the plea for sympathy that poured from his eyes as he turned his head to regard him.

He answered the call, voice already loaded with incalculable rage that his perfect weekend had just been ruined, "Scott, what the fuck did I tell you? I'm off the fucking clock! It's two in the fucking morning, what could you possibly need?"

Silence as Bobby listened to Scott down the line. John felt his body contract in on itself, his rage deflating like the last balloon at a disappointing birthday party.

"Okay. Okay. I'll have to get him to take me. Yes, I'm at his. I've been here all weekend. I'll be there as soon as I can. Just do what you can, okay? Get Storm to-"

A pause as Scott interrupted him.

"Yeah, I figured. I'm on my way."

The line went dead, and Bobby slouched, head between his knees.

"What's going on, Bobby?"

He spoke to the floor, unwilling to look John in the eye.

"I haven't been one hundred percent honest with you these last few days, John. If I promise to explain everything after, can you please just trust me, and do this?"

"Bobby…"

"Please!" Bobby turned to him, expression plaintive. John nodded. Bobby pulled him into a hug, and John could feel his body shivering. 

Bobby was nervous again.

"Let me throw some clothes on."

* * *

They arrived at the school at 2:25. Bobby had John break several traffic laws on the way, but had made it clear that it was very important that they got where they were going, and fast. As they pulled up to where the rest of Bobby's team stood, he could see why.

The building was engulfed in flame. John could feel it, each individual blaze calling to his mind. It would take only the briefest moment of concentration for him to-

"Bobby! We need you in there now!"

A voice cut through his thoughts, one he hadn't heard before. He guessed it was Scott. He saw Peter and Ororo standing next to him. They were all in suits — skin tight, black. They looked like the Avengers — only more coordinated.

He and Bobby got out of the car, running to his friends where they stood on the grass outside of the high school. It was then it registered, a bank of visual information that had been held back by a dam in his brain — likely to preserve his own sanity. 

Peter was made of metal. Somehow. He spoke and moved as normal, but his body shone like John's father's Harley that sat in their garage back in Vermont.

"Hello, John. It is nice to see you again," his accent was thick, Russian. There was a tinny quality to the sound, as if he were speaking down a metal tube. Which, he probably was. "I am sorry that we had to interrupt your evening."

"It's okay, Peter, I'm sure you'd rather be somewhere else too."

Peter's shrug was non-committal, Ororo laughing beside him, a hand on his arm. Her eyes were bright — two hurricanes trapped in a pair of marbles in her skull. John couldn't be sure without asking, but he inferred from her nickname that she might be able to control the weather. It would certainly explain the torrential downpour which was currently localised entirely above the school building. John watched the sheets of rain fall in front of him, so cleanly separated from the clear sky above that they appeared as a veil.

Scott wore a weird looking visor.

John wondered if he could see.

He didn't ask.

Scott spoke before he could voice his many, many questions.

"Hi John, Cyclops, leader of the X-Men. Mutant superheroes, maybe you've heard of us."

"Can't say I have."

He saw Scott's mouth twitch slightly. Clearly that had hooked on a nerve. He resisted the urge to reel him in further.

"Doesn't matter, we'll clear it up some other time." He turned to Bobby, who looked like he would rather be trapped inside that burning building than standing here having to deal with this conversation, "Bobby, I need you in there, I need fires put out before the whole place goes down. Jean and the girls were already evacuated, Angel's got them on the jet back to the mansion to get treated ASAP."

John decided to speak then, hoping he could save them an unnecessary degree of effort.

Scott raised a hand to silence him, as he continued to go over the plan with Bobby.

Bobby who now appeared to be made entirely out of ice.

_Right._ _Fire and ice. Yes. Right. Ha ha, very funny, God._

John kept his mouth shut. Fuck them, they could do it themselves. 

Bobby turned to him, an apology cracking across his features as he gestured to himself. 

"Sorry, John. I thought I might get to show you this at a better time."

John shrugged, lighting a cigarette as he gestured to the school, "Get to work. I'll deal with you after." 

Bobby's head hung, but he did as he was told.

John watched him manoeuvre through the building, watched flames disperse in jets of icy steam as he suffocated them. He felt it in his mind too, those incessant pulls being cut off suddenly, their life snuffed out in a whoosh frigid air. It was serene, in a way, watching your new boyfriend — because that's what he was, no use denying it — doing something so beyond the ordinary while you stood off to the side, pulling on a cigarette like you're waiting for a taxi outside of a nightclub.

Then he heard the crash.

A weak support beam, more than likely. Scott's hand flew to an X on his shoulder, white against the black of his suit, and spoke into it.

"Bobby! Are you okay?"

Bobby's voice returned to them, distorted as it played through three different receivers on each of their suits.

"I'm stuck, pillar landed on me. I'm safe from the flames as long as I stay iced up, but that's not gonna matter a whole lot if this place comes crashing down on m- Oh god, he can hear me." His tone changed in a split second from a casual admission of mortal danger to an affectation of calm. It was the same voice that the emergency services used to calm civilians pinned to their car seat by their own steering wheel. "John! I'll be okay! Everything's okay! I just need some assistance."

Three pairs of eyes turned to him, concern darkening their features as they tried to figure out a game plan. They huddled together, speaking in hushed tones, attempting to keep John from panicking.

But he wasn't panicking.

For the first time in his life, he knew what he was doing.

It took them a minute to notice him walking across the grass towards the school.

Scott called to him, voice incredulous, "Get away! Are you nuts?"

He raised his arm, palm flat towards the sky, and exhaled a plume of smoke. He watched it rise above him, imagined it joining the cloud of violently churning ash arising from the school.

He felt each flame in the area, one by one, and called them to him. Fire surged from the shattered windows of the school, poured from open doors towards him. It whirled in his face, a tempest of shifting light and writhing energy. The heat barely registered on his exposed skin. Ever since he was a teenager he knew about it, the way that fire called to him. It sang in his mind, pleading with him to control it, to spread it, to engulf the world in flames. John had never been one for the pyromaniac fantasy — it was all so overdone. Fire belonged to him, and he bent it to his will.

He was in control.

He collected the fire as it came to him, squashing it down, a miniature star hovering five feet from the ground in front of him, heaving and roaring with barely-contained rage. He extracted the fire from the school, leaving only blaring alarms, sputtering water systems and ashen destruction behind. 

Somewhere inside, trapped under a concrete pillar — and  _ fuck _ that was the same leg he had injured months ago — Bobby watched the fire disappear. Distantly, his mind wondered what was happening, refusing to contend with the obvious reality of his situation.

The fire belonged to John, and he commanded it to disperse.

The ball dissipated into the air, a final ember floating to his palm as he used it to light another cigarette. He deserved a second, he had been through a lot.

Footsteps rushed towards and past him, great thundering footfalls that tore chunks out of the turf as Peter made his way into the building to retrieve Bobby. Scott and Ororo approached him tentatively, unsure as to how they should react.

He spoke around the cigarette in his mouth, "You're welcome."

Ororo started, "Bobby never told us that you were-"

"What? A mutant? Yeah. Didn't really come up in our conversations."

Scott was clearly the perpetually-perturbed type. His face — what little of it John could see — was incredulous.

"He didn't tell you? About his powers?"

"Uh, no. Not exactly. He said he was on a sports team." Ororo laughed at that, and John met her with a grin. He liked her. He returned to Scott, a finger jabbed into his chest.

_ Christ, were they all covered in muscles? _

"As for you, Mr Team Captain. Maybe Bobby didn't tell me about your little Avengers LARP group because he was too busy pouring his heart out to me that this team was sucking the life out of him!"

Scott bristled. John had hit another nerve. Easy as pie it seemed, with this one.

"Listen, if Bobby had just told me about you beforehand, we could have worked something out!"

John was about to rear back up at him, but Peter returned, bearing his burden across his shoulders. He laid Bobby in the grass, letting him cool his skin against the damp. John knelt beside him, a little too quickly to preserve his façade of maybe not being into Bobby all that much.

"How're you doing?"

"I'm good. Little hot."

"I can imagine."

"Yeah." A brief, awkward silence, "Peter tells me you've got powers too?"

"'Fraid so."

"When were you gonna bring that one up?"

"Do you really wanna go down that road right now?"

Bobby's face cracked again, that fluorescent smile shining against his ash-stained skin. 

Jesus Christ, he was so beautiful.

"I kid."

"Guess you don't have to worry about me rejecting you for being a mutant, huh?"

"Are you gonna reject me for being on a team of — what did you call us — Avengers LARPers?"

"No, I'm not. But you can't deny that's what this looks like." He tilted his head in Peter's direction, "You've even got Iron Man."

That got a laugh from Ororo, and a huff from Peter.

"I like this one. You better get a good apology lined up, Bobby-boy, I want to see him again."

"I'll have you know that I am actually made of some bizarre alloy of titanium, vibranium, and several metals currently unknown to conventional science."

John nodded, his pantomime of an interested party remaining unconvincing. He spoke, cutting Scott off before he could open his stupid mouth again.

"Can you all fuck off somewhere for like ten minutes? I'd like to speak to Bobby alone."

Scott looked like he was about to protest, but Ororo's hand on his shoulder implored him to reconsider. They dispersed, evidently to call emergency services to come have them clean up the school.

Bobby sat up, hands between his legs as he shredded blades of grass between his fingers. His shoulders sat hunched as he refused to meet John's eyes.

"Well, first off. This has been a weird fourth date. But still not my worst."

Bobby smiled, but it was forced. John decided, uncharacteristically, to let him off the hook. He laid a hand on his back, in between his shoulder blades, and brought his lips to Bobby's cheek, avoiding the spots of ash where they streaked black and grey across his face.

"I'm not gonna end what we have Bobby, if that's what's got you down."

Bobby let himself slouch into John, head on his shoulder. A sigh quaked out of his lungs, eyes screwed shut against the tears of relief that he was embarrassed to be harbouring.

"Are you sure? I mean, I'd understand…"

He trailed off, unsure of where he was going. His voice was tiny in his chest. There wasn't much between them in age, but John felt like he was comforting a lost child. It would have been sad, were it not so unforgivingly cute.

"We can try it out, like we said. See where it goes."

"You could live with me- with us, at the mansion. It'd be safe there for you! You could teach! We have kids there that need tutors for regular school stuff too, I'm sure they'd take you on!"

Bobby was letting his mouth run ahead of his mind, anxiety clearly gripping his thoughts in a vice. John patted him on the shoulder, hoisting him upright.

"We'll talk about it in the morning. Go tell your team you're coming home with me. You need a bath."

They did go home together that night. 

John let Bobby sit in his bathtub, washing streaks of ash and grime from his body with hands gentle enough to send him to sleep, had it not been for their inability to stop talking to one another. It was that rush — the realization that you had found someone who understood you more deeply than most others around you. John had felt it with his first boyfriend, each of them the only two gay kids either had ever met before. The water had long gone cold — more of a murky, grey puddle of water than a bath — before they figured it was time to rinse off for good.

He took Bobby to bed, and they curled around one another.

John laid a hand on his cheek, let it warm his skin, let Bobby's eyes fall shut as he gave in to comfort and exhaustion.

John kissed his nose, his ear, his jaw, his forehead. He settled their heads together, one hand possessive over Bobby's heart.

Three words sat at the front of his mind, but he wasn't ready for that yet. He filed them away in a drawer, an ivory envelope with a big red seal — Do Not Open. It was too much to rush. Too much at stake. As much as he may have wanted to give in to the fall, it was better to climb down slowly, to let the water pool around his ankles, his knees, his waist. John was never one for diving in.

He settled for Bobby's name, spoken in a hushed whisper to his hair as he cradled his sleeping form in his arms.

* * *

John did end up moving into the mansion as spring blazed into summer, working as a combination math teacher and mutant power instructor. He had been skeptical of his ability to accurately and usefully instruct the kids on the employment of their abilities in their everyday life, but was surprised to find how enjoyable it was. The kids didn't like him, as such — he was far too sarcastic, far too unwilling to put up with their bullshit — but he liked to think they respected him, to some degree.

He had been inducted as a staff member with the rest of the X-Men present in the room, as Xavier made a final offer to him to join their team.

"Listen, Charles. I'm grateful for the job, but I have no interest in your little Off Broadway production of Avengers: The Musical, okay?"

Once more, Ororo almost cracked at his jab. She had confided in him that their team always had felt like a second rate squad at best. Each enjoyed how much his words riled up Scott, who lived and breathed the team.

"Yes, I had assumed enough given our last meeting all those years ago, but I thought perhaps you might have changed your mind since high school."

Bobby was the only one to speak up, breaking the decorum of the whole process. Charles smiled placidly at his interruption, clearly already aware of it beforehand.

"Hold on a second, what are you talking about?"

John let Xavier tell the story.

He had been approached by Xavier — flying solo, Hank the only member of the team so far — and was asked if he would like to join a team being put together to aid mutantkind in its integration into human society. John had balked — barely sixteen years old and already fed up with everyone and everything, and told Xavier he could stick his team wherever he liked, but John wouldn't be joining.

"The intervening years have done little to improve your demeanour, I see. However, you do swear less, which is an improvement."

* * *

John and Bobby had separate rooms for the first few months. John had insisted, and Bobby remained put out about it the entire time.

"I just don't see why we live in the same house but you need your own room?"

"For the one thousandth time Bobby, we're taking this slowly, alright? I'm not moving in with you after a few months together. I need my own space."

"I could give you space!"

"Bobby, look at yourself." 

Bobby was on top of John, sprawled across his front, head in his lap. John rested a stack of tests on his back, continuing to grade while Bobby whined underneath him.

"C'mon, you already told me you loved me, can't we just go to the next part?"

John shifted the stack of papers, regarding Bobby from behind the glasses he wore while reading. Bobby shifted so he was kneeling in between his legs, and reached for the glasses, placing them on the nightstand next to his cellphone. He pressed himself close, nose running the length of John's jaw, mouth settling at his ear.

"I love you."

John chuckled, grin splitting his façade of annoyance in two, "You say that all the time." A pause as their lips met. "I love you too, baby."

Bobby grinned right back, moving his mouth to John's neck. He let his head fall to the headboard, let Bobby's name escape his lips in a whispered sigh, let his fingers wind in their usual spot in his hair. Bobby's fingers worked his belt, the buttons of his jeans, shimmying everything down around his thighs as his mouth found what it sought.

John finished with Bobby's hand pressed across his mouth to stifle his moans, panting heavily as it moved away, a thread of saliva breaking as Bobby moved back up to kiss him. He could taste himself on Bobby's tongue, could feel the heat between them as his hands gripped frantically at Bobby's shoulders, holding him close.

Bobby whispered in his ear, voice hoarse from his activities, lips swollen and face flushed, "C'mon baby, don't make me sleep on my own anymore."

John gave into him, eventually. As September rolled around, and a group of new students joined the school, John figured it was only right to free up a room that could be used for them instead. Besides, he had had enough of sleeping alone. Enough for a lifetime.

Bobby was elated in his own way — his usual way whenever he got what he wanted.

They fell even further into their own private paradise — each night spent in a blissful haze that John thought he might never have been able to experience.

He slept with Bobby's hand in his own, each breath, each heartbeat, in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that was it!
> 
> Short and sweet, as you might say.
> 
> I actually posted this yesterday as one big long fic, but figured it might work better in chapter format, so you're not stuck reading 18k words in one big go with no breaks, so hopefully this is a little easier.
> 
> If you enjoyed, please do let me know, and keep your eyes peeled for Cadence: For Real This Time (not the actual title), some time in the spring!
> 
> À bientot, Mal.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> If you did, be sure to let me know with comments and/or kudos, as both send signals to my brain to produce serotonin which keeps me kicking.
> 
> Like I said, keep an eye out for Cadence coming some time in Feb/March 2020 to ao3.
> 
> Until next time.


End file.
